


they're all gone

by Gozufucker



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Depression, Gen, No Dialogue, Suicide contemplation, tattoo headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 11:56:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10019783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gozufucker/pseuds/Gozufucker
Summary: A typical morning in the prison for gifted juveniles.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Hoshi's backstory. No main game spoilers.

The morning announcement rings out like a devil's shriek from hell as the five cubs wish everyone a beary good morning. Hoshi stares up at the ceiling, bags under his eyes as he listens to them drivel on. A guitar twangs and then breaks over Monodam's head, Monofunny pukes in distress, and Monotaro squabbles with Monosuke over the formation of some kind of order, only for the broadcast to be cut as Monodam's thrown right at the camera. It's like a bad saturday morning cartoon, and it's not even a saturday. Hoshi has no idea what day it is. His sense of time's died down while in prison. A dead man doesn't need to know what day it is, only the time he has to go back to his cell.

How long has he been awake now? It has to be hours. Hours seems logical, considering the former tennis star does not sleep much. Despite his coaches best intents and teachings, after the murders, a good and healthy schedule for sleep just doesn't sit with him anymore. Even if he wanted it to, the nightmares wake him up every night in a cold sweat and just one wish.

To let him die.

But that wish won't come true. He won't die, that'd be mercy from the gods, and he's got a feeling that the gods don't smile down at him. He can feel his uniform cling onto him. He didn't undress for sleep this time, although usually he sleeps all natural. Last night wasn't good to him, but then again, no night is. They're all the same, filled to the brim with hatred for himself, and at those who're long gone. That's stereotypical, but he has to indulge some of the naivete his younger self had.

Hoshi rolls off of his bed and almost flops down onto the floor, legs barely stretching out in time to allow him to land on his feet, grunting as he removes the sweaty uniform from his body, letting the clothes hang there on the floor. He'll clean those up. Despite being the way he is, dirty rooms don't sit too well with him. He plods to the shower room, swinging the door open hard enough that he's almost scared of the glass breaking when it slams against the wall. Despite that fear, he makes his way inside and reaches for the shower handle.

Cold water falls down his back in a sudden stream that causes his eyes to rip completely open, the bags under them making him look like a sort of demonic garden gnome, or some other devilish beast. He reaches for a sponge, only to remember that there's none here. There's probably one in the storage room, but he's not too assed to go and get one. When she was alive, sometimes she would wash his back. He remembered those times. Back then he would tolerate warm, longer showers. She washed his back, he washed hers. It was a normal thing, yet he always felt warm when it happened. Now that he's thrown that person away, he has nothing of the sort.

The cold water clings onto his back. It almost feels like it's trying to cling onto the ink itched onto his back, like a pattern knit onto some cheap rug that most wouldn't notice unless they took a close look. The pattern was the exact same his cap sported. He had no real reason for taking it. He didn't wish to be respect or feared. He didn't wish for much, besides that one gift he would not gain. Gods weren't kind.

He turns the shower off and plods over to the sink instead, grabbing a stool and standing on it as he stares at the wall mounted cabinet's mirror, watching the reflection of his face. A more stereotypical and romanticized person could maybe see a face next to his. Or maybe a blood filled reflection, reminding him of all that he has done. Or maybe he'd see a happier future reflected to him, giving him hope for the future.

Too bad reality was never that forgiving. There was nothing but Hoshi's tired and scruffy reflection as he opened the cabinet and took out a razor. He didn't apply any shaving cream onto his face, slicing away the few strands of hair from his face in a dull monotone that'd taken over his whole life. Father taught him how to shave, even if it was projected that Hoshi would never grow a full beard. At most, a few loose strands of hair would occupy his face. He'd been "blessed" with the gift of an eternally youthful face, it seemed like. How embarrassing.

He places the razor back in the cabinet without bothering to clean or do anything to it, closing the cabinet. He turns the sink on and watches water pool out before then getting drained away. He feels the short temptation of shoving his face into the water, letting it drown him and take him to those who ask for his release, just a peaceful drowning... He could die right now and be done with it. But in the end, he doesn't act on the urge and instead pools up some of the water into his palms, splashing it against his face to wake him up some more. The cold shower hadn't helped much, and neither did the water, only irritating him as he turned the sink off, hopping off of the tool.

His quiet steps take him to his closet next as he swings it open and watches the uniforms, hats and jackets, all in a neat row. There's nothing else to dress up in, as if Monokuma wanted to promote some sort of uniformity within the students by giving them all only a singular outfit to wear, outside of things like swimsuits and training robes. He draws the striped prison uniform out, along with a pair of white underwear. He slips both on and then picks up his cap, plonking it on, fixing the horns for a moment. The cap's one of the few things he still has left from those times. Mother used to knit something similar, albeit without the horns or the skull/tennis racket pattern. The sweet woman didn't deserve her fate.

Finally, the biker jacket. He pulls it on and zips it up, feeling the leather already cling onto his body like a straitjacket or an iron maiden, ready to push it's spikes deep into his flesh, creating deep holes and cuts that'd bleed him dry... But, those were only in his mind. Each corpse was one hole, bleeding out. And more the holes, more the trauma from the bleeding. He couldn't take much more of it. But he had to take all he had dished out and more. That was the law of karma.

His hand rests on the knob to his door. If he was a romantic, once more, maybe he could feel the ghosts of the past behind him, either blaming him or absolving him of his sins. Maybe she would be there, holding his shoulder right now.

But he's not. Ryoma Hoshi steps out of his room, fully aware they're gone.

And he's to blame.


End file.
